


Drum Major

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Marching Band, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, M/M, Marching Band
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 11:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9438986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: “Hang on a second,” Grantaire said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Just because you’re running doesn’t mean that you’ll be the next drum major.”Enjolras glared at him. “Well, seeing as I’m the only person running at the moment, it does seem pretty likely,” he said, his tone brittle."Fine," Grantaire said. "Then I'll do it."





	

**Author's Note:**

> For [john-watsons-potato](https://tmblr.co/m0Wmt2PF8k44QWUFRwWtT2w), who requested a high school marching band AU.
> 
> While I was never in band myself, my brother was, 98% of my friends were, all of my high school boyfriends were, and I spent more time doing band-related things than I ever wanted to. I’ve taken some departures from my own knowledge, but we’ll chalk it up to the fact that I was a choir kid.
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos.

Enjolras rapped on the music stand. “Everybody settle down,” he called, which was hardly necessary, since pretty much everyone had fallen silent as soon as he stood up. Everyone, that is, except Bossuet and Grantaire, who were using Grantaire’s xylophone mallets as swords. “Ahem,” Enjolras said, a hint of irritation in his voice, and Grantaire and Bossuet looked up at him, Grantaire grinning, Bossuet sheepish. “Now that everyone’s decided to pay attention…”  


“Who died and made you drum major?” Grantaire asked, still grinning.

“Funny you should ask,” Enjolras said, giving him a nasty look. “I’ve convened this meeting of section leaders exactly for that purpose. I know we all have places to be after school, so I’ll make this quick. Since Mabeuf is graduating, we need to elect a new drum major before we get into summer practice. And based on the bylaws approved by the entire marching band—”

“—who was harassed into doing so by Enjolras, who also wrote said bylaws,” Grantaire said under his breath while Joly and Bossuet snickered.

Enjolras raised his voice to talk above Grantaire. “—Based on the bylaws, the section leaders must nominate candidates who will be vetted by Director Valjean before being voted on by the full band.” He glanced around the room as if daring anyone else to talk back to him. “Needless to say, I would like to announce my candidacy.”

Literally no one looked surprised at that. “Well, as section leader of the clarinets, I would be happy to second your candidacy, though I think the mellophones will be losing a valuable asset,” Combeferre said, straightening his music.

“Personally, I think the trumpet section will benefit from one less loud-ass mellophone,” Courfeyrac said, propping his chin on his hand. “So naturally, I’m happy with this. And I’m confident that my darling Pontmercy will take over the mellophones with aplomb.”

Enjolras made a face as if he had forgotten that his section leadership would be taken over by Marius, who was too busy gazing into Cosette’s eyes to pay attention. “Yes, well, ignoring the fact that Marius shouldn’t be here since he’s not section leader yet,” he said loudly, and Cosette tore her gaze away from Marius just long enough to give Enjolras the finger, “I’m quite grateful for the support, no matter the reason, and I am looking forward to leading—”

“Hang on a second,” Grantaire said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Just because you’re running doesn’t mean that you’ll be the next drum major.”

Enjolras glared at him. “Well, seeing as I’m the only person running at the moment, it does seem pretty likely,” he said, his tone brittle.

Grantaire returned his gaze evenly. “And I thought the whole point of this convoluted election scheme that was _your_ idea was to ensure that every member of marching band had an opportunity to have their voice heard. I don’t see how that’s possible without some kind of competition.” 

“Fine,” Enjolras said, gripping the music stand with both hands and surveying the room. “Who wants to run against me?” 

Suddenly, everyone seemed very interested in looking at the ground or the ceiling or anywhere that wasn’t Enjolras — everyone, that is, but Grantaire, who stood. “Fine,” he said, raising his chin slightly. “I’ll do it.”

Enjolras stared at him. “You?”

Grantaire merely raised an eyebrow in response. “Me.”

For a moment, it looked as though Enjolras might laugh, but he managed to contain it. “You, drum major?” he repeated, as everyone else looked back and forth between them, waiting on baited breath. “You, lead the entire marching band?”

“Sure, why not?” Grantaire said, shrugging.

Enjolras glanced around the room as if looking for support, and when he didn’t find it, he turned his glare back on Grantaire. “Are you good for anything?”

Grantaire shrugged again. “I have a vague ambition in that direction.”

“You don’t even _like_ marching band,” Enjolras pointed out evenly. “Why the hell would you want to do this?”

A small smirk lifted Grantaire’s mouth. “That’s for me to know, and you to find out.”

Enjolras snorted and shook his head. “If you wanted to do something in service of this band, you could actually try and lead the percussion section for once, or any of the many other tasks you neglect. But actually _leading_ this band...you’re not capable of it.”

A collective wince seemed to pass around the room, and even Enjolras looked like he realized he had gone too far. But Grantaire’s expression didn’t change. “I’ve been studying music since I was four years old,” he said coolly. “I’ve had just as much experience as you, and just as much right to run for drum major. So unless you’ve changed your mind, and want to take away your fellow musicians’ right to vote on their own leader, we’ll let them decide who’s most capable of it.”

With that, he turned to head out the door, only pausing when Enjolras called at his retreating back, “Someone still has to second your nomination!”

Bahorel stood, his flute tiny in his massive hands. “I’ll second him,” he said, grinning. “If only because the next few days suddenly got a lot more interesting.”

“Very well,” Combeferre said, standing. “Is everyone in favor of Enjolras and Grantaire contending for drum major?” He didn’t wait for any replies, and especially didn’t give Enjolras a chance to object. “Seeing no objection, Enjolras, Grantaire, I’ll let Valjean know and he’ll schedule times to interview you ahead of your pitch to the marching band as a whole.” He began gathering up his music. “Meeting dismissed.”

Grantaire disappeared out of the band room, followed closely by Bossuet and Joly, neither of whom looked overjoyed at what had just transpired. Enjolras looked wildly around as if hoping someone, _anyone_ would explain to him what had just happened, which was the cue for just about everyone else to scatter. “Can you believe this?” Enjolras hissed at Combeferre. “Grantaire! He doesn’t care about anything, and is one bust for alcohol on school property away from expulsion!”

“Then it shouldn’t be too difficult for you to beat him,” Combeferre told him. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

He offered no actual excuse before leaving as well, and Enjolras slumped into a chair, looking defeated. Then he sat up straighter, his eyes gleaming. “Well, fine,” he said, seemingly to the now empty room. “If it’s a fight he wants, it’s a fight he’ll get.”

* * *

The silence was palpable and both Enjolras and Grantaire were trying very hard not to look at each other as they sat on the chairs outside of Valjean’s office. After a long moment, Grantaire sighed, kicking the toe of his shoe against the ground. “This is stupid,” he said, finally looking over at Enjolras, who was staring straight ahead, his expression stony. “It’s not like this is personal.”

“Then what is it?” Enjolras asked without looking at Grantaire.

“Strictly business,” Grantaire said, doing his best Pacino impression, but Enjolras didn’t smile.

The door to Valjean’s office opened and both Enjolras and Grantaire swiveled around. “Well, gentlemen,” Valjean said, leaning against the doorjamb. “Having completed interviews with both of you, I’m happy to say that I would be comfortable and confident with either of you as drum major. Which means it’s up to your peers to decide.”

Enjolras looked equal parts shocked and horrified. “Are you _kidding_ me?” he asked, incredulous.

Grantaire smiled sourly at him. “Evidently he sees something you don’t,” he said before offering Valjean his hand to shake. “And who knows...maybe our peers will see the same thing. I, for one, am willing to give them the benefit of the doubt.”

He turned and left before Enjolras could come up with a retort, and as soon as he was out of Enjolras’s line of sight, his shoulders slumped and his expression fell into something close to misery. Then he stopped in his tracks and groaned. “My sketchbook,” he said resignedly, turning on heel to return to Valjean’s office, where he had undoubtedly left said sketchbook.

He had barely made it back to the music wing of the high school when he heard raised voices, and his heart sank as he recognized the timbre of Enjolras’s voice. For half a second, he considered just giving his sketchbook up as lost, but the competing parts of Grantaire that were infinitely curious and masochistic overruled his self-preservation instincts, and he crept closer.

“It’s just not _fair_ ,” Enjolras was saying, and Grantaire could just picture how red his face was, and allowed himself a moment of deep self-satisfaction.

“Honestly, Enjolras, I’m surprised at you,” Valjean said evenly, and Grantaire heard a clunk that sounded like Valjean setting his coffee mug on his desk. “You’re the one who came to me when you were only a freshman and demanded equal say for all marching band members. This is exactly what you wanted.”

Enjolras sucked in a breath. “This is _not_ what I wanted.”

Grantaire had mostly expected for Enjolras’s words — no more than what he routinely said to Grantaire’s face — to have little effect on him, but Enjolras sounded almost wounded, and Grantaire’s brow puckered. Valjean’s tone turned gentle. “Then what did you want?” he asked, and after a moment of silence, “And, frankly, why are you making such a big deal out of this? Grantaire is an excellent drummer, and, while I would personally prefer a bit more dedication to getting all of the drum line and pit up to his speed, he’s quite capable, but you and I both know that when it comes to sheer leadership, you take the cake. What are you so concerned about?”

“This is _high school_ ,” Enjolras said, as if that answered the question, and then elaborated, “Everything’s always a popularity contest, and…” He trailed off, and Grantaire winced, knowing what was coming. “And sometimes people don’t like me. But everyone _loves_ Grantaire.”

Valjean’s seat creaked and Grantaire could picture him leaning back in it, surveying Enjolras thoughtfully. “You’re a very charismatic young man,” he pointed out evenly. “And you have the capacity to inspire people.”

“But charisma and inspiration are not the same as popularity.”

“True enough,” Valjean agreed. “Perhaps you could, I don’t, spend the next few days leading up to the vote working on appearing more likeable.”

“That’s the whole _point_ , though—” Enjolras said, his voice rising again. “I shouldn’t have to because this shouldn’t be a popularity contest!”

Grantaire had heard enough, and he quietly grabbed his sketchbook from where he had left it on the chair and slunk away from the office. He was beginning to get an idea, and he had a bad feeling that this was one idea that wasn’t going to leave him alone.

* * *

“Mind if I sit down?”

Enjolras looked up, his expression unfocused, his fork paused halfway to his mouth, and it took him a moment to realize who was talking to him. “Um,” he said, setting his fork back down on his plate. “Sure?”

Grantaire flashed him a smile and set his lunch tray down next to Enjolras’s, carefully avoiding the music sheets spread out all over the lunch table. “So I was thinking,” he said, grabbing a french fry and munching on it. “We have, what, two days until the drum major election? We should work together.”

Enjolras stared at him. “What?” he asked. 

“We should work together,” Grantaire repeated, spearing a piece of Enjolras’s tuna casserole with his fork and eating it before Enjolras could stop him.

“Why in the hell would I want to do that?” Enjolras asked, bewildered.

Grantaire shrugged. “Well, one of the two of us is going to be drum major, and we might both have good ideas. Since you and I clearly want what’s best for the band, it just makes sense to share them so that no matter who gets elected, the best ideas are implemented.”

Enjolras’s brow was furrowed. “But why would you want to _help_ me?” he asked.

“I don’t,” Grantaire said, a little too quickly. “No more than you’d want to help me. But this isn’t about you and me. It’s about the _band_.”

“Fine,” Enjolras said after a long moment, taking a bite of tuna casserole and clearly reconsidering, pushing his tray away. Grantaire wordlessly offered his french fries and Enjolras took one, flashing Grantaire a grateful smile. “So what did you have in mind?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Well, given that Regional Marching Festival falls early in September this year, I was thinking that we could use the time after the competition at football games to highlight the different sections of band. You know, one weekend we could do a show that gives solos to the trombones, and then the next week, clarinets. Or whatever.”

Enjolras looked surprised. “That’s...actually a really good idea,” he said. “Give some of the spotlight to the sections that traditionally don’t get to shine in competition.”

“Exactly,” Grantaire said, satisfied. “So what’s one of your ideas?”

“I wanted to put the music focus back in the sections, and have full band practice focus on the field shows,” Enjolras said. “We wasted so much time this past year trying to get individual sections to get their act together—”

“Guilty as charged,” Grantaire said with a sheepish grin.

“—Which meant we didn’t have as much time to get the footing down. And that’s why we got marked down so much in competition last year.” Enjolras shook his head. “The section leaders have to actually do their jobs and get their people in line with what we need from them. Otherwise there’s no point going to competition, especially since last year we lost to the JROTC drum and bugle corps.”

He sounded scandalized and Grantaire laughed slightly. “Well, I think you’re on the right track, but dude, you can’t tell them that in your campaign pitch.”

Enjolras frowned. “Why not?”

“Because it sounds like you think no one’s doing their job and that they all suck,” Grantaire said, grinning. “You’ve got to butter them up — make it a competition between the sections. You know no section likes to get shown up by another one. Tell the flutes that they’re in danger of falling behind the clarinets and they’ll practically claw each others’ eyes out to get back on top.”

Enjolras propped his chin on his hand. “And what, pray tell, could I have told the percussion section this past year to get them fired up?” he asked, also grinning.

Grantaire laughed. “Oh, nothing,” he said confidently. “We always were the best.”

“Bullshit,” Enjolras said, but it was good natured, and both laughed. He grabbed another of Grantaire’s fries and ate it before asking, still grinning, “Why are you doing this?”

“Why I am doing what?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras waved a fry dismissively. “You know, all of this.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “Maybe because I actually want to make a positive difference,” he said, a little coolly.”

Enjolras snorted. “Yeah, right,” he said dismissively. “You never have before.”

Grantaire’s expression fell slightly and he grabbed his tray and stood. “And maybe you never gave me a chance,” he shot back before stalking away, leaving Enjolras staring after him.

* * *

Valjean tapped the music stand with his conductor’s baton and raised his hands for the band’s attention. “Alright, everyone,” he said good naturedly, waiting for the chatter to die down. “Enjolras and Grantaire are going to present their campaign pitch for why they should earn your vote for drum major. Once both speeches are done, you will cast your votes, and we will have our new drum major.”

A hand raised, and Valjean sighed. “Yes, Cosette?” he said.

His daughter stood, smiling blithely at him. “Shouldn’t the incoming freshman on marching band get to vote on who is going to lead them? It seems counterintuitive to have outgoing seniors vote for a position that won’t affect them.”

“Enjolras and I had this very conversation when we first instituted this policy,” Valjean said, rubbing his forehead. “But the logistics would be too difficult, for one, and outgoing seniors have more experience and know what to look for in a leader. Any other questions?” No one else raised a hand, and Valjean rolled his eyes. “Very well. We flipped a coin earlier, and Grantaire will kick this whole thing off. Mr. Grantaire — whenever you’re ready.”

Grantaire made his way to the front of the room, a small frown furrowing his brow as he surveyed the assembled students. “This whole thing is stupid,” he said, propping his elbow on the music stand. “Like anything I say here is gonna convince any of you. You know me, you know Enjolras. Your minds are probably already made up. And frankly, if they’re made up in favor of me, you’re an idiot.”

Giggles spread through the room and Grantaire grinned. “I mean, c’mon. You know it’s true. I know it’s true. Valjean knows it’s true, though I appreciate the opportunity nonetheless. But the whole reason why I wanted to do this is to make sure that everyone’s ideas — no matter who presents an idea or how off the wall it may be — get heard. And, listen, I had as many doubts as anyone that Enjolras would be capable of listening to any ideas that weren’t his own.”

Even more laughter greeted this, and Grantaire chanced a glance at Enjolras, who was frowning. “But he’s proven me wrong. So that, plus, you know, the fact that I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing—”

“Language,” Valjean warned mildly, though he was trying not to smile.

“Right, that,” Grantaire said, grinning. “Well, like I said, you’d be idiots not to elect Enjolras. He’s gonna make a great drum major, and I like forward to giving him hell every step of the way.” With that, he took a step back, saluted, and returned to his seat to almost tumultuous applause and loud wolf whistles from Courfeyrac and Bahorel. 

Valjean stood up and waited for the noise to die down. “So, uh, I’m guessing we really don’t need to hear from Enjolras,” he said. “In which case...everyone in favor of Enjolras as drum major?”

Hands throughout the room shot in the air, and Valjean carefully counted, a small smile crossing his face. “It appears to be unanimous, or as close to it as we’re going to get. Mr. Enjolras — the floor is yours.”

Enjolras stood, looking a little confused. “Um, we’ll convene starting on Saturday at 10 a.m. I look forward to seeing everyone there.”

Everyone took that as a dismissal and began packing up and leaving. Enjolras, however, made his way back to where Grantaire lounged behind the timpanis. “So what the hell was that about?” Enjolras asked bluntly.

Grantaire grinned lazily. “I decided you’d be better suited to the role. And I was never much one for speeches anyway.”

“Then why did you do it?” Enjolras asked.

A brief flash of indecision flashed across Grantaire’s face and his bit his lip before blurting, “Remember when you said that I don’t even like marching band? Well, you weren’t wrong. But, uh...I do like you.” Enjolras just stared at him, and Grantaire elaborated, blushing bright red, “Like, you know, _like_ like you.”

Enjolras flushed as well. “Um, right. Yeah, I mean, I knew that. Courfeyrac, uh, kind of told me. When I was complaining. He said you did it to get my attention because you, um, you know.” His blush deepened. “But um, what I meant was, why did you run in the first place if you were just going to do that?”

Grantaire looked embarrassed and he shrugged, crossing his arms in front of his chest and avoiding Enjolras’s gaze. “Whatever,” he muttered. “It’s like I said when this all started. It’s not, like, a true democracy without choice. It would just be a dictatorship, and the last thing I would want is for your drum majorship or whatever to be considered a dictatorship.”

For just a moment, Enjolras stared at him. Then, without warning, he closed the space between them and kissed Grantaire. When they resurfaced for air, Grantaire stared at Enjolras, bewildered. “What was _that_ about?” he gasped, quickly adding, “Not that I’m complaining, but…”

Enjolras’s cheeks were pink, but he was smiling in a self-satisfied way. “It’s just, I never thought I’d hear you use the words ‘true democracy’ unironically.”

“That’s weird as well, but I’ll take it,” Grantaire said, grinning, and pulled Enjolras back to him to kiss him again. “After all, I’ve never made out with a drum major before.”

“Well, first time for everything,” Enjolras murmured, wrapping his arms around Grantaire’s waist.

Grantaire’s grin turned wicked. “We’ll leave the topic of your first time for later. For now, everyone’s pretty much gone home, and there’s a couple of soundproof practice rooms with our name on them.”

“I like the way you think,” Enjolras said.

“Words I never thought I’d hear _you_ say,” Grantaire said, lacing his fingers with Enjolras’s and tugging him in the direction of the practice rooms.


End file.
